Authors: U
around. Annie had a good camera with her and took a few snapshots.
I talked a guy who was there into taking one of us together, with the
ocean in the background.
I have no idea how it will turn out.
Then it was back to Bay Street for a tour of the shops. When we
got back to the cabin, I made dinner and we drank more wine. The
sex was a reprise of the first night, except that all three were
missionary position.
"That other one," Annie said, meaning doggy style, "kind of makes
me sore."
Truth be told, my literary efforts seem to turn her on, it would
appear. It was cold in my bedroom so we had to snuggle very close.
For once she didn’t talk me to death, just threw her head back and let
it happen.
Still, she seems to be wary of me for some reason. Or maybe I am
projecting my own fears. She is of course adorable. I really wish she
were a tad less inhibited, but she really has the most flawless skin and
a lovely complexion.
As for my book, Annie was encouraging, but realistic.
"At least you’ve got a book written," she said. "Whatever faults it
may have can probably be corrected, or you can write another one.
Yours is a pretty unique accomplishment, Patrick. I don’t think you
ought to be ashamed of anything. And don’t take my criticisms too
hard. Promise me?"
"Well, thank you, and I will not," I said.
49
The next thing I knew, Annie’s sweater was off, and I was once
more kissing and sucking her big white boobies, nuzzling them like
there was no tomorrow.
But there I go again, dammit. The woman has an I.Q. of 180 and
typically all I can focus on is her bod.
We laughed a lot. I like Annie so very much. If she was going to
remain in the state I know that we’d see a lot of each other. But she’s
heading back east in a week or so.
Working hard on getting her PhD.
Soon they will be calling her "The Professor," like that fellow on
Gilligan’s Island
. And I will be the Skipper’s half-wit little buddy in
a sailor cap.
Reading Raymond Chandler’s
Killer in the Rain
and other stories.
Has reading dear old Raymio’s stuff altered my style in any way?
Sure hope so. That guy could really write.
I had the right idea there in the first draft of the book, but I was
terribly clumsy. Annie said she’d be happy to try a chapter by chapter
breakdown, as she does with her own reading material. For that, I
would indeed be very grateful. Maybe I’ll help by giving her my
shiny red pen.
Work at the office is still okay. Perhaps I should stay here for two
years and try to buy a cabin in the woods, like Thoreau. A place with
a lot of psilocybin mushrooms around. If I found a place before
summer maybe I could even grow some dope. Get me an illegal cash
crop a-going. That might be fun. If I’m going to live in the sticks, I
might as well live in the real sticks.
Haven’t heard from Ms. Ellsworth, nor do I really expect to. My
last missive was somewhat heavy-handed, I will admit. But who
cares? I have gotten contradictory messages from her and I’d like to
be clear on what she is saying before I turn away for good. I can
always try another letter again. Nothing succeeds like persistent
failure.
I am meanwhile moving along, getting into the final portion of my
manuscript. Annie says the third part is the hardest and I agree with
her. She is very perceptive about things.
50
* * * *
March 17, 1978 St. Patrick’s Day
I’ve always hated this day. I don’t like being named after that
stupid jerk who drove the snakes out of Ireland. I think they should
have kept the snakes and drove the Catholic Church out. I like
snakes. They are useful in controlling vermin.
On the other hand, few institutions have been responsible for more
suffering in the past 2,000 years than our Holy Mother Church. They
even cut a deal with Hitler during World War II to look the other way
while he murdered the Jews, although the Vatican denies it.
But the Jews all know better. Annie said her parents and their
relatives are totally convinced the Vatican sold them out to Hitler. I
agree. Although I am not Jewish, I have a hell of a lot more respect
for their religion than I do my own.
The certified letter turned out to be from Bill Beckwith, the former
boyfriend of Lori Sanchez. Somehow or other Bill still had one of my
old poetry manuscripts, Inner Space Commando I must have given it
to him during one of my drunken moments.
Well well well. I have recovered all of my ancient literary artifacts
in the space of one week. That is a good thing.
I can’t get over how bad my poems are.
A couple may be salvageable, but otherwise blech. Perhaps I try
some new ones over the summer or strike out in a new direction.
Right now I’m just not ready to do it. I’m not ready to do anything. I
am very tired and must go to sleep.
* * * *
March 18, 1978
Got lots of things to do on this, my Saturday. First of all, I’ll have
to make a trip to the dump to get rid of the trash I’ve been
accumulating since I got here. Also need to change the oil in the bus.
And it would be nice to complete another chapter today.
A long one, like Chap. 31.
The landlord came by this morning and said it was okay if I paid
him from the first to the first. We agreed on a pro-rated sum for the
rest of this month. I’m not sure what I will do about money until then,
51
however. I only have about $10 left. I wish the State University
would let them send me my refund. I could make it to the end of the
month easy on that.
* * * *
March 19, 1978
It is Sunday and I did not have such a great weekend with the
typewriter. I think I burned myself out on Friday night and did
nothing yesterday except work on my tan.
It might be because Chap. 31 is such a difficult grind, and it may be
because I am no good. But I really think worrying about money is the
cause of it. I am broke. Either I get money soon or else I’ll be in deep
shit.
The hunger thing really does not appeal to me. Today I only
managed six or seven hundred words.
A dismal effort. Tomorrow I must call my mother and ask to
borrow some money. Groan. Normally I would not do it but she
owes me a giant favor. I spent three months and over $300 last fall
fixing her garage. Now it is usable instead of unusable.
As with any project relating to her, it started fairly small but
ballooned into this huge unbelievable undertaking, eating my days off
for three months. I did it mainly to shut her up but of course that did
me no good. She doesn’t ever shut up. Now she can do me a tiny
favor in return. Twenty bucks ought to cover me. That is how I will
put it to her in fact.
Talked to my neighbor Harry Williams today. He’s about my age
or so. Within a year, I’d say. Very pleasant and smart. He’s in the
process of getting a divorce from his wife, Shana.
Although Harry works hard and gives her every penny, Shana is
dissatisfied with their marriage and wants out. The marriage was her
idea six years ago – an "unplanned pregnancy" was the impetus. Now
that the child is older Shana is bored with Harry and disillusioned with
married life in general.
Women. The only thing worse than not giving them what they
want is giving them what they want. This is my interpretation as
Harry absolutely refuses to be critical of his soon-to-be ex-wife. It is
52
all his fault, he says, for spending too much time on business instead
of family.
For working too hard and ignoring her many complaints. I said
nothing negative about her while he castigated himself but thought to
myself that she has done a real job on him.
Not very eager to go back to work this week. If it weren’t for
Megan, I’d really fucking dread it.
* * * *
March 23, 1978
Finished Chap. 35 yesterday. On page 103 now. A difficult dream
sequence has gone pretty well so far. Expect to finish it tomorrow.
Work is a grind. But with Megan’s help I am making progress and
getting the hang of it. I like this kind of work much better than the
physical type jobs I have held in the past. All I really think about is
my book, though. I want to get through this draft in an artful fashion.
Borrowed $30 from my mother to get me through the end of the
month. I told her I’ll pay her back with interest the very instant I get
paid. Wish Oxygen State would send my balance because my refund
comes to substantially more than I currently owe them.
Talked politics with a quadriplegic client named John Delano
today. He says Jerry Brown will run in 1980 but thinks nobody can
dislodge Carter at this point. Mr. Delano says the system is ripe for a
political takeover, most likely a right wing one. He says the
Republicans will win with Ronald Reagan. I disagree.
Perhaps I am a foolish dreamer, but I believe our generation will
make some positive changes. I believe we will do the right thing and
make a difference politically.
* * * *
March 24, 1978
I may have to ditch this writing scam once I am finished with
The
Dark City
. It takes too much out of me. I am alone too often and I am
turning into a drunk. The booze doesn’t seem to hurt my prose – yet –
but I think it might be hurting me. I’m drunk now, really drunk. I
drink every night. I smoke cigarettes constantly when I am writing.
I’m smoking one now.
53
That idiot Chesley failed to take the phone out of the house on 25th
Street. Now I’m stuck with an extra three week $40 bill since the
goddamn thing was in my name. Sonofabitch!
Did he do it on purpose because I moved out? I can’t believe he
would be so deliberately shitty. I called the phone people today and
told them to take it out. I think he just moved and forgot about it.
That would be more like him.
He told me he would cancel the service and I relied on him to keep
his word. It really burns me up. He flakes, I pay.
Finished Chap. 36 tonight. Kept the good stuff, eliminated the bad
stuff, or so I like to think. Major changes overall, with an
intermediate notebook draft that was very helpful.
Anyway, I like the result.
Slip-sliding away. The nearer my destination, the more I’m slip-
sliding away. What is the purpose of this journal? It has grown
beyond my original intentions, and writing it has become a
compulsion. It shows me growing older, harder, sadder. Still, I yearn
for something more than what I have. I wish to achieve. I wish for
love. I want something that will stand forever.
And yet I know it will all disappear like the smoke ring I just blew
from my cigarette. It will vanish in the haze, get covered in the fog,
become submerged in the fast-running stream of time. I may only be
26, but I feel very old. I feel like 90.
Been digging clams in the mud. Horsenecks. Mmmm. Mighty
good eating. Tasty and cheap. I know how to live but love is beyond
my reach. I deserve what I have – nothing.
I lied to Annie the other day when she was here. Told her I had
destroyed all our old correspondence. Of course I haven’t. I never
destroy anything. Well, almost never. I destroyed the semi-nude
photos Ms. Ellsworth let me take of her although I still have the bikini
shots. Damn, I wish I still had those.
Just to look at. Man, what a Formula One bod that woman had.
(Still has?) I use the past tense only because it (the bod) is no longer
available to me.
What a shame.
54
Yes, it’s really too bad. Nobody knew how to operate that
screamin’ machine better than yours truly. Perhaps Polly has found a
more compatible man in the occupational or financial sense, but at the
chemical level I know I will always reign supreme. That burning
passion we had is rare, very rare.
Goddamn, we could make each other cum like you wouldn’t
believe. One night I swear I had two orgasms in a row, about a
minute apart. What an experience that was. And I could tell it was
the same for her, even just from intercourse, although Polly was
always ready to do anything, try anything.
Amazing.
It is not the same with Annie, I am sorry to report. Good, not great.